


Thorns Remain

by DoreyG



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Hate Sex, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Violent Thoughts, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: "You're only opposing my ideas out of sheer stubbornness!" Hamilton yells into his face, hands clenched into fists and eyes narrowed in fury, "if you would get your head out of your ass for one moment, and actuallythink-"





	Thorns Remain

**Author's Note:**

> I've tagged this with both Hamilton and American Revolution RPF because while this is set in Hamilton, it's also influenced a huge amount by the gigantic Hamilton biography by Chernow (which I'm reading at the moment, and which I'd definitely recommend!) 
> 
> Please do pay attention to the warnings at the top of this. It's definitely consensual on both sides, but (as the tags imply) it's neither safe or sane and Jefferson still kinda wants to punch Hamilton in the face throughout.

"You're only opposing my ideas out of sheer stubbornness!" Hamilton yells into his face, hands clenched into fists and eyes narrowed in fury, "if you would get your head out of your ass for one moment, and actually _think_ -"

"I _am_ thinking!" He snaps back, just as furious. Usually he manages to be laconic, almost _debonair_ in his lack of concern, but Alexander fucking Hamilton somehow manages to get under his skin every single time, "and believe you me, I am _not_ just opposing your laughable "ideas" out of stubbornness."

"Stubbornness, idiocy, what's the difference?" Hamilton says on a snarl, his fists somehow clenching even harder until his knuckles go a strained shade of white, "and fuck you, my ideas are not _laughable_."

"They're hilarious!" He counters, and narrowly resists the urge to just snap and punch the irritating fucker right in his fucking face, "astonishingly funny, the best joke that I've ever heard! To think, that you would actually hand this country _back_ to the British after all that we've gone through..."

"It's a trade deal, Jefferson, not a marriage contract," Hamilton says, through gritted teeth, "they provide the most useful materials for building up our country, and until we can get our own manufacturing underway-"

"Now who's being an idiot?" He asks flatly, still fighting down the urge to pummel Hamilton until the annoying fuck just stops _talking_ for once in his goddamn life, "you would court the British, you would prostitute yourself for _manufacturing_ , when we could just as easily make deals with the French and become self sufficient through farming."

"You know very well, _very_ well, that that won't actually _work_."

"Just because you say so?" He asks, puts a taunting note into his voice to hide the unsteady fury that lurks just underneath, "we did not suffer, we did not fight, we did not _create_ ourselves just to have one arrogant fool with an over-inflated sense of his own importance ruin absolutely everything for the sake of his ego."

"Oh my _God_ ," Hamilton says, and rolls his eyes so hard that it's a miracle they don't fall out of his head, "even setting aside your use of the word _we_ -"

"What do you mean setting aside my use of the word _we_?" He interrupts, somewhat surprised that he can find the words through his sudden increase in fury, "you were not the only one who won the fucking war, Hamilton!"

"Of course I wasn't," Hamilton says, and the small smirk that curves his lips is the most infuriating thing that he has _ever_ seen, "but I certainly didn't win it besides _you_. Where were you, when we were all fighting a revolution? Missing it all, as I recall. Luxuriating in _France_ , while the rest of us were dying."

For a moment he's speechless. His fingers twitch, his mind buzzes around the edges. The urge to just put his hands around Hamilton's skinny throat and _squeeze_ is stronger than it's ever been, "fuck you, you fucking moron."

" _Eloquent_."

"I have done more for this country than you can ever imagine," he hisses, shoving aside the brief surge of guilt over the fact that he's never actually stood shoulder to shoulder with Hamilton in battle, "I wrote the declaration of independence, I raised our international profile, I made it possible for us to _exist_ -"

"Sure you did," Hamilton says, a certain glint in his eyes that _never_ bodes well, "and none of those are synonyms for being a great big fucking coward at _all_."

Something snaps within him, hard and fast enough to give whiplash. Without any coherent thought he finds himself stepping forward angrily, grabbing Hamilton by the shoulders and shoving him until his back hits the wall and their faces are so close to each other that he can feel the man's breath against his lips.

"I am _not_ ," he says, voice so rough that it comes out as a growl, "a coward."

"Of course you aren't," Hamilton says, but his tone is hardly placating. That glint is still in his eyes, that certain look that _always_ comes just before he does something stupid enough to go down in history, "I never said you were, good sir. I called you a great big _fucking_ coward. Perhaps you need to work on your comprehension?"

He debates over doing many things, in that moment. Over moving his hands to Hamilton's throat and squeezing until the breath splutters out, over punching Hamilton in the face and ringing that obnoxious glint with black, over just dragging him over to the window and dropping him so he can _surely_ never bother another good innocent soul ever again...

In the end, he settles for none of them. He acts on instinct instead, and surges forward to kiss Hamilton's mouth so hard that he feels the man's lip split between them.

Hamilton responds with shock at first, a sudden jolt that he feels right through his body as closely pressed together as they are, but soon gets up to speed. It's one of the most impressive things about him, as well as one of the most annoying. The jolt turns into a surge towards him, the man's lips open and his tongue comes out to tangle, his hands rise into his hair and grip there hard enough to hurt.

He has a moment to wonder if he's gone insane, if they've _both_ gone insane, as their lips slowly learn how to fit together. They should be brawling at this point, or at least exchanging more pointed barbs until they've argued themselves to a resentful draw. He _should_ have his hands wrapped around Hamilton's irritating throat, be squeezing until the light goes out of his - admittedly beautiful - eyes.

It's only a moment, though. Hamilton moans against his mouth, an ever so needy sound, and for once he decides imitation is the best possible option. He loses himself in the kiss, licks Hamilton's stupidly talented mouth open and revels in the noises he provokes.

It's not enough, though, for either of them. Another annoying way that they're alike, as much as they both try to deny it - they could have the whole world in the palm of their hands, and would still stretch for the sun. Soon the press of Hamilton's tongue against his becomes more insistent, the rock of his body more forceful, the tug of his hands in his hair even more painful.

He knows exactly what the man wants. And, luckily for Hamilton, his desires are exactly the same. He unfists his hands from where they were clenched in Hamilton's jacket, smooths them across his chest for only an instant before dropping them down to the fall of the man's breeches.

Hamilton stiffens against him, gives an encouraging moan against his lips, but doesn't have time to do much more than that. He may be a 'great big fucking coward' (hah, and Hamilton is just as wrong about that as he is about everything else), but he's still quicker than many idiots would give him credit for. Before the man can do more than squirm encouragingly his breeches are already undone, rolling down his thighs and leaving him so deliciously bare.

The other clothes on the man's lower body come off with a few moments of scrambling and frantic swearing against his mouth, and then it's a simple matter of pushing his shirt up and hitching him against the wall for a better angle. He can say many truthfully insulting things about Hamilton, _many_ things, but the least he can give the man is that he's good at following instruction when the situation is desperate - he allows himself to be lifted up the wall easily, wraps his long naked legs around his thighs like they were meant to go there.

Suddenly the imperative to get somewhere, to get naked flesh pressed up against naked flesh, is stronger than ever. He presses Hamilton back against the wall with his body, keeping him up that way. Slithers one hand down between them, and scrambles desperately at the fall of his own breeches to try and free himself.

And... _There_.

Hamilton makes an approving sound as his cock springs loose from its confines, and then a slightly more confused one as he tugs his hand out again and holds it to the man's face. Honestly, for a smart man he has _no_ common sense whatsoever.

"Spit," he explains shortly. And then, when Hamilton continues to frown at him in confusion, "I have no desire to have my clerks come running into my office if you start screaming like you're being murdered, so _spit_."

"Won't it hurt anyway?" Hamilton asks sullenly, but does as he asks - spits once firmly into his hand, and then once more as if he's _relishing_ the opportunity to do so.

"Probably," he says, and pushes his hand down again. Shoves it between Hamilton's thighs, before he has the chance to tense, and presses brusque fingers up against his hole, "but the difference there is, at least I'll _mean_ it to."

There's a little resistance at first, it's Hamilton so of _course_ there is, but sooner than expected there's a give and suddenly his fingers are sliding smoothly inside the man's body. He thrusts them up a few times, ignoring Hamilton's grumble of discomfort against his neck. Scissors them briefly, trying to get a little give going, and waits just long enough for Hamilton to slowly start relaxing in his arms.

And then, because maybe Hamilton is right and he _is_ a bit of a bastard when it comes down to it, he lines himself up. Pushes himself in with one hard thrust, taking a certain _pleasure_ in forcing the man open around him.

"Ow!" Hamilton yelps, clenching briefly around him - but soon forces himself to relax, goes liquid in his arms again like he's pushing himself to get used to the stretch, "no, don't _stop_."

"I barely even slowed down, you ridiculous human being," he huffs, and chooses to follow instructions this time himself. Moves until he's fully seated in Hamilton, fully enclosed in that wonderfully tight heat, and then captures the man's mouth again in a bruising kiss.

He tells himself it's because he really doesn't want any noise to get out. He acknowledges, at the same time, that he's probably lying.

It's a bit awkward at first, for both of them he's willing to admit. Hamilton is intriguingly tight, but also somewhat dry. He has to shift a little on the floor to continue taking Hamilton's (surprisingly light) weight, Hamilton has to shift a little against the wall to keep them both upright. Hamilton himself keeps making small noises of discomfort against his lips, little pants that show him to be not quite as composed as he's trying to seem.

But then...

Something shifts, maybe a twitch in position or a puff of the wind or even a shift of Hamilton's lips against his, and suddenly it all changes. The dryness becomes irrelevant, replaced with a delicious friction that sends a sudden heat racing all through him. Their positioning against the wall suddenly becomes perfect, just right for him to drive deeply up into Hamilton as Hamilton grinds firmly back down onto him. Hamilton's noises stutter for a moment, and then switch from uncomfortable grumbles to groans so sweet that he half wishes he could capture them for posterity.

He must admit, things start getting a little hazy from that point on. Suddenly they're not just tentatively moving against each other, trying to find their way through this strange place where instinct alone has led them, but actively _fucking_. 

He drives Hamilton into the wall, hard enough that there are probably going to be bruises on the man's back in the morning. Hamilton responds by tugging his hair hard enough that it's a miracle none of it comes out. He bites at Hamilton's lips until he can taste blood, the split on his lip opening again to bathe the both of them. Hamilton responds by digging his heels in, tightening his thighs until he half feels like he's being crushed. They move together in perfect rhythm, anticipating each others' movements in a way that he's never experienced with any of his past bed partners.

And he can't help but think that if they could do this exact same thing when both of them were clothed, that if they could actually work together instead of trying to tear out each others' throats...

Luckily it's only a brief thought, and one that flies away quickly. Soon Hamilton is giving a desperate yelp against his mouth, and coming so hard between them that he _knows_ there are going to be stains. And soon, following Hamilton for perhaps the first time in his life, he's coming too in a blaze of heat and light and pressure rising up in his chest fast enough to choke him.

They rest together for a second in the aftermath, lips no longer touching but foreheads pressed together, and then he manages to shake himself loose. Pulls himself out, none too gently, and allows Hamilton to drop back to the floor. The man lands like a cat, of course, so delicately on his feet that it's like nothing could ever rock him.

They stare at each other for a long moment, unsure of what exactly to say. Hamilton is still naked from the waist-down, his own limp cock still hangs out of his breeches somewhat pathetically.

"Jefferson..." Hamilton is the first one to speak, and then has to hastily clear his throat to try and get rid of the raggedness in his voice, "I may have been a bit hasty, when I called you a- a great big fucking coward, I apologise for my wording."

"...But not for your meaning, or your implication," he says, licks his lips briefly and belatedly tries to adopt an expression of scorn, "there's no need for either of us to apologise, Hamilton, not when neither of us mean a damn word."


End file.
